ShadowChaser
I want to get it out. All of it. But it’s complicated, and I don’t know where to begin. It was nothing horrific or earth shattering, but it’s there, and I suppose I should stop denying that it affects me. I’ve never really looked at the things that I experienced as anything more than your typical sibling rivalry, strict parents, or overly curious hormonal boys… but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was something more.
I grew accustomed to being hit pretty early on. Between my parents’ discipline choices and being a seemingly constant target for my brother’s fits of violent rage, I learned there wasn’t much I could do to stop it. Sure, we were all in and out of therapy when I was growing up, in an effort to tame the chaos at home – but little changed over the years other than my brother’s medication.
I remember one Sunday morning, while getting ready for church, my brother and I had been fighting and I was crying because he’d hit me again. It was time to leave and my parents instructed us to get in the car. My oldest brother and I (still sobbing) complied, and my father got into the driver’s seat in front of me while we waited for my mother to placate my brother enough to get him to come to the car. Dad told me to stop crying as he sat behind the wheel seething with anger and irritation, but I couldn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t. So he reached around the seat and slapped me hard enough for his ring to make my cheek bleed. But it stopped before we got to church, so no one knew.
I could usually tell when my brother was about to get ugly. That was my cue to run. Most of the time, I would run to my room. If I was fast enough to beat him there, I would shut the door and put all my weight against it in an effort to keep him out. I’d pray for him to just go away. But he was bigger, and heavier, and so much stronger than me. And the older we got, the bigger and stronger he got. I was so happy when a girl my age moved in across the street. Her parents were more than happy to let me hide there any time I needed to. But don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t the only one he’d let loose on. There was the time when he was 10 and he kicked my mother in the face and gave her a black eye, though that’s not what she told most people had happened. He also once chased our brother through the house with a small bat when we were teenagers, and I was so thankful that my dad was still just a little bigger than him. My parents got quite good at repairing holes in walls. And I got real tired of explaining to my friends that they couldn’t control him when they would ask me, “Why do they let him do that to you?” They just didn’t understand.
I was so scared. I hated him. I remember writing in my diary as a little girl about how much I hated him and how I planned to never let him near any children I might have. Some days I wished that he would just totally lose it and kill me.
I know now that the severe depression that ate away at him was too much for him to handle, and time has healed our relationship. I love him dearly and admire the strong man he has become. But there is still an underlying sense of fear and concern that I don’t think will ever go away. Years ago my sister-in-law brought my darling niece over late one night with bruises on her sweet toddler face and it all came rushing back. I pray for his children, his family, every day. I am thankful that he’s accepted the fact that he needs medication.
But there were other things that happened in my childhood that I’ve told very few people about. Things that, until a year ago, my parents didn’t know about. Things I never even hinted at with the therapists I saw. You see, I was good at keeping secrets.
When I was six, we visited some friends on Easter. I don’t know how I ended up upstairs in a bedroom with the door shut with a boy more than 10 years older than me, and I’m still not certain on whether or not my oldest brother was in the room too… I think he was. This boy, this young man, had been chasing me, playing with me, tickling me, letting me sit in his lap and sing songs all day… gaining my trust. He was so nice, so handsome, and I liked him. It was late in the afternoon now, and the sunlight was beginning to dull as dusk approached.
He sat on his bed and asked me if I knew what being ‘pantsed’ meant. I had no idea what he was talking about. He laughed at me a little and explained that it was when a person pulled someone else’s pants down, or when a boy put his hand in a girl’s pants. He asked if I would let him do that to me. I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea why he’d want to do such a thing, but I liked him and I wanted him to like me too. When I didn’t answer right away, he decided to sweeten the deal and offer me my choice of three of his stuffed animals in exchange. I gave in. What could it hurt, right? He was so nice, and had a lovely smile. He’d easily coerced his way into my six-year-old pants in exchange for a few toys and I still remember the amused look on his face as I pulled away and yanked my pants up. I still don’t like the feeling of someone’s fingers between my legs.
Of course, I couldn’t tell my parents. I was sure to get in trouble if I did and I didn’t want to get spanked. I hated being spanked – and that was before my father had taken his belt to me, and before my mother had broken her spoon on my brother’s rear after years of use.
I don’t know how or when it started with my oldest brother. I can’t remember if it was before that day, or after, but it continued until I was 13. It was a secret between just the two of us. Quiet moments behind closed doors when his tickling would turn to touching and he’d lay on top of me and kiss me. I felt trapped and a little helpless. But that wasn’t new to me. I remember having to button my pants before leaving his room, I remember having to fasten my bra. I remember telling him to stop and him answering, “Stop what?” I don’t remember anything more than that, and I don’t really want to. I still don’t like the feeling of someone else’s tongue in my mouth.
I ran away from home when I was 14. We were only gone for two days when the police found us. I gave them a brief and watered down explanation of what my life at home was like. Their main questions were, ‘Does anyone hit you?’ and, ‘Do they leave a mark?’ I thought that that was awfully mild criteria, but what did I know. The told me they’d like to send me to a receiving home, but I insisted on going home with my parents. I missed them. And I love my family, all of them…I really do. Things slowly improved after that, but I know my parents were angry and hurt by what I’d done.
Years later, I would whisper my secrets through tears, on late night phone calls to my best friend. He already knew about my ‘crazy’ brother. But I told him I let a boy stick his hand in my pants in exchange for toys. I told him that I used to make out with my brother. I told him about my dad pushing me on the bed and kicking me after finding me in bed with my boyfriend at 15. It was then that he gently informed me that I had been molested and abused. I still don’t like those words…
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ShadowChaser blogs at Chasing My Shadows. She asks that you please keep all comments here on Violence UnSilenced, rather than at her blog.
Wednesday Q&A: Is it rape if I was drunk?
[EDITOR'S NOTE: ALTHOUGH THE INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS GOOD, THE POST ITSELF IS OUTDATED. IT WAS PUBLISHED IN JULY 2009. IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS AT ALL ABOUT SEXUAL ASSAULT PLEASE CONTACT RAINN'S AT 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).]
Q: Someone had sex with me when I didn’t want to, when I didn’t even know it was going to happen. I was drunk, and I assume he was too. I can’t remember much except that I woke up to find him doing it, and it hurt (and it was my first time.) If I had been sober I would probably call it rape, but … could he have really known what he was doing, since he was drunk too? My friends say it’s rape but I feel responsible. Is it rape?
A: I will try to be as definitive as possible: Rape is any act of sexual intercourse that is non-consensual. It doesn’t matter if someone is drunk. It doesn’t matter if you know them. It doesn’t matter if you enjoy their company. It doesn’t matter if you invited them in. It doesn’t matter if you would have said “yes” under different, consensual circumstances.
It sounds like you’re asking whether the perpetrator in this scenario should be held accountable for his actions if he was intoxicated. He may not have had as much to drink. He may have. We don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I will say it again, because it bears repeating. Rape is any act of sexual intercourse that is non-consensual. Period.
I spoke with a legal expert to help address this. It’s a sensitive question, but it’s an important one. Multiple studies have found that alcohol and other drugs are used in the vast majority of date and acquaintance rapes. It’s very important that we take these crimes seriously, and that we hold perpetrators accountable for their behavior.
But we’re treading on legal ground here, so I turned to Jenny W., a legal expert who specializes in domestic abuse and sexual assault cases. “My gut reaction,” says Jenny, “is that if a woman perceives or feels she has been raped or assaulted, then she has.”
Legally speaking, each state has its own statute that defines, in often very specific language, the types of actions that qualify as sexual assault. These statutes distinguish varying degrees of sexual assault, each with its own measures for what must be proven, and a range of penalties if and when a perpetrator is found guilty.
So, all of that background information leads us to this, which gets at the heart of the question. Says our legal expert: “If a perpetrator is intoxicated, it could be argued [by the perpetrator’s attorney] that the assault deserves a lesser charge. But intoxication in its own right does not excuse the conduct under the law.”
Phrased another way, from the Wisconsin Coalition Against Sexual Assault: “Being under the influence of alcohol and/or drugs is not an excuse for perpetrating sexual violence. It does not give someone a right to hurt other people.”
Many perpetrators of date or acquaintance rape use drugs and alcohol as tools in their assaults – in fact, alcohol is the number-one date rape drug used in the United States. However, regardless of whether the victim was intoxicated, regardless of what she was wearing or where she was or whether she fought back or whether she knew her attacker – the perpetrator’s actions are not her fault. We cannot blame the victim. And we must hold perpetrators accountable for their actions.
Some alarming facts about date/acquaintance rape, particularly on college campuses and among young adults:
- According to Harvard University, 1 in every 20 female college students is sexually assaulted each school year; 72% of those women are raped while they are too intoxicated to give consent.
- A national study of sexual assault on college campuses found that 75% of male students and 55% of female students involved in date rape had been drinking or using drugs at the time.
- The same study found that an alarming 84% of men whose actions matched the legal definition of rape said that what they did was definitely not rape.
Many online resources can help you learn how to reduce your risk of being drugged and sexually assaulted, the warning signs to watch for, and what to do if you suspect this has happened to someone you know. This online checklist is a good place to start.
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Each Wednesday we feature a Q&A with an expert. This column is not legal advice, nor is it intended to take the place of legal advice, professional counseling, crisis intervention, or safety planning. For legal or emotional support or for safety planning specific to your situation, please access help from the National Domestic Violence Hotline or from a domestic violence agency near you. This column is intended for educational purposes only.
Please exercise the same safe, supportive, non-judgmental restraint in the comment section of the Q&A as you do for survivors, as many of them are reading.
Our volunteer expert, Carrie K., is a trained advocate who has worked with survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault, as well as their families and friends. Her background includes hotline advocacy, community education, and awareness and prevention programming around issues of domestic violence. She currently works for a domestic violence intervention and prevention program in Wisconsin. She blogs at rageisgood.blogspot.com
Sunny
It began with a rape the summer that I turned sixteen. I call it that even though I was sweet-talked into it, and I didn’t say no, but I really didn’t want to. Afterward, I felt like damaged goods, and that it didn’t matter any more that I’d been trying to save myself for marriage — I’d better just take what I could get.
On October 31 of that year, I met an older man who swept me off my feet with romantic promises and charm. We were at a costume party together, and he was dressed like Satan. I suppose I didn’t know foreshadowing when I saw it.
He took advantage of my teenage naivety, wrapped me so tightly around his finger that I didn’t question when he cheated on me. I believed him when he said, “It just sorta happened.” I didn’t question when he told me he would kill himself if I left him. I didn’t question when he told me he had a black belt in tae kwon do and would kick me in the throat if I spoke out of turn. (“If I want to hear your voice, I’ll ask for it, or else I’ll make it so you can never talk again.”) I was under his thumb for a year, but I never questioned it because he never actually laid a hand on me. True, I couldn’t make a single decision for myself without his say-so and my grades suffered, but no one knew anything was wrong — after all, he was sweet and charming in front of our friends. He cooked for me and he was wonderful in bed. I didn’t question when he said he had to move to another city for a job, and made plans to visit him in the summer for my birthday in August.
When I arrived at his house it was mostly empty of furniture, and he would not touch me – not even after professing his love and undying devotion. He spent my two-day visit gone at work except when he came back to sleep. I was lonely but I felt I deserved it — after all, he was so much older than I, so he knew best, right? I was sure he’d have some kind of romantic thing to make up for it, never questioning when he drove me back home three hours in near silence.
When he came to see me two months later and proposed, I accepted. A few days after he left, some of our mutual friends staged an intervention. They told me he was bad for me, that he was cheating on me, that I was so emotionally and mentally under his thumb that I was unable to get myself out of the situation, so they were going to do it for me. They had good intentions, but you know what they say about the road to hell. When I called him to break it off, he accused me of sleeping with another man. (Many years later I would meet another woman who’d hadn’t been as “lucky” as I was with him, and had found herself in the unfortunate position of looking down the barrel of a loaded shotgun one Christmas.)
I was seventeen then, and one of the people who helped bring me out of my pit was another older man. I recall he was about 26 or so. Unfortunately, as young women on the rebound do, I immediately latched onto him and promptly fell head-over-heels. He was a musician, smart and funny, and he liked gaming as I did. We dated for three months before he threw a sponge at me one night during a small disagreement. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Had I been wiser, I probably would have turned tail then.
We moved into an apartment together. It wasn’t long before I was walking on eggshells, never knowing what might set him off and make him yell at me. One night after another small disagreement (it was about ordering pizza, and I wanted a sandwich from the same place) he punched me in the back. I cried, and he swore up and down that he’d never do it again, that he’d just lost his temper a little. We had make-up sex, which made it worse as time went on because I began pushing his buttons specifically because I knew we’d have sex afterwards, and it was the only way to get sex at all. I didn’t see anything wrong with an argument or a smack or two to get sex. I felt like I deserved it.
Once he punched me in the hip, and it left a large colorful bruise. A couple days later my mom took me shopping for clothes and saw the bruise.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “I ran into a doorknob.”
She didn’t say anything, but I got the impression she wasn’t fooled.
After about three years of living together, there was a night he chased me up and down the stairs of our apartment raining blows on my back and bottom. I began to feel like I’d have to do something drastic to get out of the relationship, so I started looking into the military. My recruiter and I had a good relationship, and one day after I’d been chased around and yelled at and smacked a couple of times, I hopped in my car and drove to see him. I asked him if we could take a drive. Adrenaline was still in my system and I think he knew something was wrong. I asked him if my DOE (date of entry) could be moved up, and he asked if everything was all right.
I said yes. Despite everything, I still protected my abuser. I didn’t admit what happened even though every cell in my body was urging me to. I often wonder how my life would have turned out if I’d confessed then. (Confessed — as if I’d done something wrong?) Regardless, I was able to get away sooner and joined the military.
Four years ago I received an email from my abuser. He was very apologetic, and he seemed genuinely ashamed of his past behavior. I replied back to him calmly. I told him I’d forgiven him years ago (which I had), and in his final reply he stated that he’d been to anger management classes, a psychologist and a psychiatrist. He said he’s married with a daughter now, and is happy.
In a way I feel that what happened to me was both necessary and unnecessary. Violence should never happen, but I’m grateful that, for him, it was only me, and that he took steps to make sure it didn’t happen again.
I am now 33, with three kids and a wonderful husband who is so, so patient with me despite all my baggage.
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Sunny blogs at Slave to the House.
Marisa
The sun is hiding and the wind is blowing and the grey clouds out my window tell me today is a good day for reflection. I’d say I have a much better penchant for deflection, but I’ll let you be the judge of that
I’m always in a hunt, a desperate search to see what makes others tick. It’s a genuine desire of mine to see and feel and connect with people – to know what’s real. Most people that I encounter share with me their tales of strength, their stories, and I am humbled by every sadly intricate detail.
What’s funny (okay, not funny at all — see what I mean about deflection?) is that for all the countless hours I’ve spent relating to people, I never really related back. Oh, I’ve shared a few blips here and there, but I never truly felt it was noteworthy.
So what if my dad beat me with the buckled end of his belt when I was five-years-old? Parents spank bad children and it was my own stubborn fault for refusing to cry anyway, right?
So what if he kicked the door down when I was seven and beat up my mom after they separated? He just wanted to see his little girl, it’s not like he hit me. Should I really still be whining about one hour of my life that happened 23 years ago?
So what if he walked me down the aisle with a drunken death grip on my arm that left bruises? It’s not like he hit me in the face or threatened to kill me or that anyone else even knew.
I’m doubting I should be writing you now. Maybe my memories are more about emotional abuse and you requested things about violence and sexual assault. I should just delete this email and move on, I’m wasting your time. SEE?
I’ve heard so many serious and extreme stories of survival that I felt like giving myself a voice would make the voices of those who deserved to be heard less clear.
I blogged a few poignant memories recently. About knowing, even at the age of seven, that my daddy was an asshole. Running away from home into the pasture with my birdcage in one arm and a sleeping bag in the other. The time he robbed our house (even though we sometimes didn’t have enough money to eat) with a stolen key he’d grabbed when I’d innocently let him in one day. The day he beat mom with a frying pan and I was forced to call 911 on my own father, and the guilt that followed. The way he locked me in the car when he was inside the bar. How he hit me with an opened-up wire hanger, and always tickled me when I cried. How I can’t stand to be tickled today.
I was overcome with the heaviness of what little I recalled and it took me several days to shake those feelings.
I don’t claim to be a good writer, I certainly don’t think I have a noteworthy story, and I definitely don’t want to be thought of as a victim.
However, for all of the women who don’t give themselves enough credit, for those of us who have subconsciously silenced ourselves, I felt the need to say something to you.
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Marisa blogs at It’s Worth Recording.
